A Passion for Him

Frowning, Simon moved to the bed and stripped down to his smalls. Then he crawled between the sheets. With lowered lids, he studied her, admiring her delicate golden beauty while considering why it was that he found her so unappealing. It was, to his knowledge, the only time in his life that he had found external attractiveness incapable of distracting from the internal flaws. Considering that Lysette rivaled Maria in loveliness, it was a startling realization to come to.



The women were similar in many ways, and that only emphasized their differences. Maria had a solid core within her, a spine of steel that was created by her unwavering determination. Lysette seemed sometimes as if she was uncertain of her life’s path. He could not understand why she appeared to relish her role one moment, and then despise it the next.



His instincts were clamoring, and he had come to rely on them implicitly. Something told him that all was not right in Lysette’s world. She was a hired killer, and her icy disposition supported her chosen profession. Yet her apathy for others was sometimes belied by brief flashes of confusion and remorse. He suspected she was a bit touched, and it was difficult to feel both sympathy and dislike toward the same woman.



“How did you come to work for Talleyrand?” he asked.



She jumped and glared at him. “I thought you were sleeping.”



“Obviously not.”



“I do not work for Talleyrand.”



“Who then?”



“That is none of your business,” she said smartly.



“Oh, I think it is,” he drawled.



Her gaze narrowed as she looked at him. “Whom do you work for?” she countered.



“I work for no one. I am a mercenary.”



“Hmm . . .”



“Are you?” he prodded, when she said no more than that.



Lysette shook her head, once again looking a bit lost. Her clothes were finely crafted and expensive, her manners and deportment faultless. She had begun life in far better circumstances than these. He knew why Maria had turned to a life of crime, but why had Lysette?



“Why don’t you find a rich husband and enjoy yourself draining his coffers?” he asked.



Her nose wrinkled. “How boring.”



“Well, that would depend on the husband, would it not?”



“Regardless, that does not sound appealing to me.”



“Perhaps life as a mistress would suit you better?”



“I do not like men very much,” she pronounced, startling him. “Why are you asking me such questions?”



Simon shrugged. “Why not? There is nothing else for me to do.”



“Go to sleep.”



“Do you prefer the company of women?”



She stared at him a moment. Then her eyes widened. “No! Mon Dieu. I prefer the company of books, but in lieu of that, men are my second choice. Most especially in the manner to which you are referring.”



He smiled at her horror.



“Why don’t you think about Cartland?” she suggested, “And leave me in peace.”



His humor fled. “You think he will find Mitchell?”



“I think it would be impossible for him not to with this large a number of pursuers. He was given a sizeable contingent of men. I would be surprised if he was not watching all the major roads in and out of London.” Her beautiful features lost all traces of humanity. “I would not have come with you if I thought of this as merely a family affair.”



“Of course not,” he murmured, the tiny flare of warmth he’d felt for her fading as rapidly as it had come. Such was the way of their relations—one minute he found her marginally attractive, the next he could not abide her. “And what of this man who rides with Cartland? Depardue? Do you think about him?”



“As little as possible.”



There was something more there; he could tell by the edge that had entered her voice. “He is your rival, is he not?”



Her lips whitened, then, “No. He is not. If he succeeds, it does not reflect negatively on me.”



“So why not allow him to proceed and spare yourself the blight on your soul?”



“I do what I must,” she said with a trace of defensiveness. “You do not like that I can set aside my emotions to accomplish the tasks set before me, but the ability keeps me alive.”



Heaving out his breath, Simon slid down to lie on his back. “Surviving in the manner that you and I do does not mean we have to be heartless. What would be the point of living if we have no heart?”



He heard the book slam shut. “Do not seek to lecture me!” she snapped. “You have no notion of what my life has been like.”



“So tell me,” he said easily.



“Why do you care?”



“I told you, there is nothing else to do.”



“Do you want to have sex?”



His head shot up in surprise. She stared back with both brows raised.



“With you?” he asked, incredulous.



“Who else is here?” she retorted.



To his chagrin, Simon realized that as much as he enjoyed a quick, meaningless tumble, he had no real desire to tumble Lysette. However, damned if he wouldn’t rise to the occasion. “I suppose we could . . .”



Her eyes widened at his obvious reluctance. Then she laughed, a sweet, lilting sound that he found enchanting. Who knew such a cold creature could have such a warm laugh? “You don’t want to sleep with me?” she asked, grinning.



Simon scowled. “I can manage the task,” he bit out.



Lysette looked pointedly at the general area of his cock. “It does not look that way to me.”



“Never cast aspersions on a man’s virility. You force him to prove it by fucking you raw.”



A shadow passed over her features. She swallowed hard and looked away.



His irritation fled. Sitting up, he said, “I was jesting.”



“Of course.”



Scrubbing a hand over his jaw, Simon cursed inwardly. He did not understand the woman at all. She was too mutable. “Perhaps we should restrain our conversations to safer subjects?”



She looked at him. “Yes, I think you are right.”



He waited for her to say something; then finally he took the lead. “I intend to capture Cartland and bring him together with Mitchell. Then you can see for yourself the differences between the two. If I know Cartland at all, he hopes to eliminate Mitchell before his secret is revealed.”



“If there is such a secret to tell.”



“Why do you not believe us?”



“Do not take offense,” she said easily. “I do not believe Cartland either.”



“Who do you believe, then?” he snapped.



“No one.” Her chin lifted. “Tell me you would do differently in my place.”



“You met Mitchell. He is an earnest young man with a good heart.”



Her gaze hardened. “I am certain there are those who would laud Monsieur Cartland as well.”



“Cartland is a lying murderer!”



“So you say. But did he not once work for you? Do you not have a grievance against him for revealing your traitorous activities in France? You have motive to want him dead, which leaves anything you say against him suspect.”



Cursing under his breath, Simon plopped back onto the pillow and yanked up the counterpane.



“Are you going to sleep now?” she asked.



“Yes!”



“Bonne nuit. ”



His response was a frustrated growl.



Chapter 10



A melia shivered as her bare back touched the cool counterpane and Montoya’s warmth left her. If she kept her gaze trained downward, she could see a tiny sliver of the room and the glow of the fire in the grate. But she did not want to see, so she squeezed her lids shut.



In her mind’s eye, she pictured Montoya as a rather exotic-looking man. Strong, handsome, and rather severe. The desire she felt to lighten his burdens and bring him some comfort was a goading force. She wanted to hear him laugh and press kisses to the dimples she saw far too rarely.



Suddenly, an image of Colin burst forth in all its glory, vivid and powerful. She stiffened in surprise.



“What is it?” Montoya murmured, the cessation of sound telling her that he had stopped undressing.



Inhaling sharply, Amelia brought her thoughts back to the present. Perhaps it was to be expected that she would think fondly of her first love at this moment, the one where she embarked on a similar journey with another. She lacked the experience to know.



“I am cold without you,” she lied, holding her arms out to him.



“In a moment, you will be hot and damp,” he purred, the bed dipping as he joined her atop it.



She felt the warmth of him along her side and then the gentle press of his firm lips to her shoulder. His hand drifted along the length of her, following the slight curves and valleys of her figure.



“I fear I am dreaming,” he said softly. “I am afraid to blink in case I open my eyes and find you gone.”



Amelia’s hand came to rest on the flat plane of her belly just below her navel. “I feel flutters here,” she confessed.



His hand covered hers and squeezed gently. “I will be there soon. Deep inside you.” His fingertips tiptoed across her skin and touched the curls between her legs.



It tickled, making her laugh. When he pressed his lips to hers, she felt his returning smile. “I love you,” he breathed before taking her mouth.



Her heart stopped, delaying her reaction to the deepening intrusion of his fingers. A callused fingertip parted her and her thighs squeezed together instinctively.



Gasping, Amelia turned her head away, the reaction to those whispered words hitting her with stunning force. She had never thought to hear those words again, not from the lips of a lover. Tears welled, burning her eyes.



“Open your legs,” he urged, kissing her throat. “Allow me to pleasure you.”



She began to quiver, the assault to both her senses and her heart rattling her to the core. “Reynaldo . . .”



“No.” He came over her then, kissing her hard. “Call me anything but that. Lover or darling—”



“. . . sweetheart . . .”



“Yes . . .” His tongue thrust deep, caressing hers, making her moan into his mouth. “Open,” he said ardently. “Let me see you . . . touch you . . .”



Unable to deny him when he spoke with such passion, Amelia spread her legs and then arched upward as he stroked against the tender, throbbing point that begged for his attention.



“Oh!”



Montoya’s kisses became more luxurious as he continued to fondle her with devastating skill. His callused fingertips rubbed her slick, aching sex in time to the rhythmic plunges of his tongue.



Awash in pleasure, yet struggling against the building tension that strained her body, she writhed and clutched at him. Beneath her grip his forearm muscles flexed with his movements, increasing her erotic awareness of how intimately he touched her.



Then one finger dipped lower, circling the clenching opening to her sex.



“How slick you are,” he breathed reverently. “How greedily you suck at my fingertip.” To prove his point, he pushed in the tiniest bit. Amelia cried out as her body spasmed around the gentle invasion.



“Dear God, you are so tight and hot,” he praised gruffly. “You will kill me when I push inside you.”



Amelia reached for his cock, wondering how she would accommodate him. He was so thick and hard. Her untried body was burning from the press of one finger.



Montoya groaned when she wrapped her hand around him. He was slick, too. With need and desire for her.



“You are ready to come,” he said. “Feel how hard your clitoris is?” The pad of his thumb pressed lightly against the swollen protrusion and circled. In response, her body tightened around the single finger slowly easing into it.



She whimpered as he stepped up the pace, his finger thrusting in and out, deeper and deeper. His expert manipulation of her clitoris caused her skin to dampen with sweat and her breasts to ache. Desperate mewling poured from her throat, and she clung to him, trying to bring him closer.



“Tell me what you need,” he whispered, his lips to her ear. “Tell me how to please you.”



“My nipples . . .”



“They are beautiful. Puckered so wantonly. Eager to be sucked.”



“Yes!” Amelia arched upward in blatant invitation.



“Say it, my love.” His finger pushed deeper and touched her maidenhead. “Say what you want.”



“I want . . .”



“Yes?” He continued to rub inside her.



“I want your mouth on my breasts.”



“Umm . . . with pleasure,” he purred.



She gasped when he obliged, the burning heat searing her tender flesh. Tension gripped her limbs, tightening with every tug of his lips, every thrust of his finger, every circle of his thumb.



The climax stole her breath when it hit. Her body went rigid, her heart slammed against her ribs, her blood rushed through her ears.



And deep inside her, at the extremity of her orgasm, Montoya broke through the barrier between them. Amidst the onslaught of sensation, the loss of her virginity was barely noticed, and the tear that leaked from the corner of her eye was not from pain, but pleasure so intense she could hardly bear it.



As awareness returned after the rush, she heard his hoarsely voiced endearments and praise. Her first thought was of how grateful she was to share the sexual act with a man who felt such passion for her and inspired a returning desire for him. What might have been an act of duty was instead a joy.



There were a hundred emotions warring for dominance within her, all struggling to be freed through words. But her throat was too tight to release them.



Instead, she wrapped her arms around him and held him to her breast.



Colin listened to the sound of Amelia’s heart slowing and knew he had never loved her more. She was a goddess in her passion, a creature of lust and longing, her beautiful body flushed and glistening. Earthy. Wild and hot, as she had longed to be. Built for sex.